


Dust and Echoes

by sinestrated



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape Aftermath, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:17:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinestrated/pseuds/sinestrated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock has been a slave for one month when Jim finally rescues him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust and Echoes

**Author's Note:**

> This was written purely to satisfy a sudden craving for Jim comforting a vulnerable Spock. Seriously, nothing else happens in this fic.

The slave club doesn’t have a name—not officially, anyway. Quinoc doesn’t mind. They serve good drinks, the broads’ clothes leave nothing to the imagination, and the thumping bass is loud enough to mask any conversations below a full-body shout. It’s perfect.

Quinoc has been coming here for years. It’s great: the planet they’re on is outside Federation space so he doesn’t have to worry about those Starfleet pricks sniffing around his business, and the city itself is a criminal’s wet dream: no surveillance, no laws, and the policing done by members of a mercenary militia who’ll just as soon shoot up some Double S with you as break your head.

Yeah, Quinoc likes this place. In fact, he likes it so much he considers it an office of sorts. Certainly he’s made his fair share of slave deals here, and he’s hoping tonight to do so again, with the hot little number currently chained at his feet.

He’s never owned a Vulcan slave before. Can’t blame him, really—with the planet’s destruction a few years back, the pointy-eared, stiff-spined little buggers are now an endangered species, and one in the slave trade is about as rare as a Kilian adolescent, or an Orion with her virginity still intact.

That’s why, when Quinoc spotted that pale skin and those tapered ears through the bars of that trader’s cage a week ago, he’d paid a third of his savings for the slave without even thinking about it. He hadn’t even been deterred by the trader’s assistant hinting the Vulcan hadn’t been fully trained yet. Quinoc knows how to break a slave, and like hell he was going to let such a money-maker out of his grasp.

And oh, the money-making. Already he’s made back his entire purchase price by loaning the Vulcan out to fellow traders, and Quinoc smiles to think of how many more _mardas_ he’ll rake in with such an exotic slave.

Of course, there’re also the times he’s sampled the product himself. He’s not dead, after all, and the Vulcan whimpers so pretty whenever he’s taken, like the pain is too much even for his iron control. Never fails to get Quinoc off every time. And sure, he knows the Vulcan’s still got some ways to go in terms of his training—Quinoc doesn’t like the look in his eyes, for one, the fire that remains in those dark brown irises no matter how many times Quinoc hits him or cuts him or takes him hard enough to make him bleed. The Vulcan is a fighter, that much Quinoc can tell, but he doesn’t let it worry him too much.

Beat them enough, pass them around enough, and all slaves break, eventually.

And trained or not, the Vulcan still attracts attention wherever Quinoc brings him. Hell, Quinoc didn’t even have to use the regenerator—the bruises decorate the Vulcan’s skin like tattoos, and seem to make him all the more appealing. Just tonight, Quinoc’s been in the club less than an hour and already three customers have approached him, wanting a go at the gorgeous, naked slave curled up at his feet.

He hasn’t made any deals yet, though. No one’s offered a price high enough, not for something as exotic as his slave. Quinoc fully intends to get a full stock’s price out of the Vulcan tonight—he’s even left the slave alone for the past twenty-four hours so that customers from more…territorial species won’t be turned off by his scent all over the creature. If that doesn’t demonstrate good self-restraint, he doesn’t know what does.

And it seems to be working. There’s a Tarumbi near the end of the bar who’s been eyeing Quinoc’s Vulcan pretty much from the instant they first entered the club, and Quinoc’s set his sights on him. He’s only interacted with a Tarumbi once or twice in his life—they’re a pretty xenophobic species, preferring to do all their underground dealings with other Tarumbi—but already he can tell this one is loaded. First off, he’s covered pretty much head to toe in the species’ dark, swirling tattoos, and considering Tarumbi use body modification as a sign of wealth and social status, Quinoc’s guessing this one holds a pretty high position. Secondly, the Tarumbi has blond hair and bright, piercing blue eyes, phenotypes only found among the older, more well-off clans. And finally, he’s got an escort: another Tarumbi, bearded and broad-shouldered and looking capable of killing people with his glare alone, and a human, dark eyes and dark hair and a perpetual scowl on his face, probably a family friend or something.

Across the room, their gazes lock. The Tarumbi tilts his head, eyes flicking briefly down to the Vulcan and then back up to Quinoc, the query clear. Quinoc dips his chin once. Immediately, the Tarumbi smacks his bodyguard on the shoulder, nods to his human friend, and in the next instant they’re crossing the room.

They come to a stop in front of Quinoc’s chair. The Tarumbi crosses his arms and nods down at the Vulcan, who has lifted his head and is now staring at the new arrivals with wide eyes.

“Pretty one,” the Tarumbi says, and even though the words are barely discernible over the pounding music, Quinoc still catches the thick accent of his Standard.

He smiles and fingers the chain, giving it a light tug that jerks the Vulcan closer to his thigh with a soft gasp of surprise. “You like him?” he asks, reaching down to stroke a tapered ear. “He’s for rent.”

The Tarumbi hums. “Vulcan, no? Where you get?” He doesn’t quite pronounce the “v” sound correctly; it comes out more like an “f”.

Quinoc shrugs. “A contact of mine,” he says, deliberately vague.

The Tarumbi doesn’t seem satisfied. “This species, hard to locate. Want your source.” He pauses. “Pay you more.”

Well, Quinoc certainly can’t pass that up. Besides, it’s not like that other trader is in hiding or anything. He nods, and when the Tarumbi passes him a padd, he inputs the guy’s information and hands it back.

This seems to please the Tarumbi, who rolls his shoulders in his species’ trademark sign of satisfaction. “Grateful,” he says, before nodding again at the slave. “You say for rent?”

“Yeah. Charge by the hour.”

“Hm.” The Tarumbi nods at his human companion. “This my friend. Doctor. He look at product, we talk price. Agree?”

Quinoc nods. It’s pretty standard business in the slave trade; no one wants to buy something permanently mutilated or disease-ridden, after all. …Well, not unless you were into that sort of thing. “Sure.”

The Tarumbi murmurs something unintelligible to the human, who immediately kneels down in front of the Vulcan. His examination is remarkably gentle, at least for someone in this business, and it seems to be the right move: the Vulcan does not lash out at him or shy away, both of which have been typical reactions whenever Quinoc has loaned him out to customers.

When the doctor finishes and draws back, Quinoc catches his hands trembling in the dim light of the club. When he speaks with the Tarumbi though, again in that low murmur, his voice is steady. Quinoc brushes it off; the human is probably on something.

The Tarumbi’s face betrays no expression beyond a brief nostril flare. Quinoc isn’t sure what that particular gesture means for the species, but it can’t be anything bad because in the next instant the Tarumbi turns to him and nods. “Good product,” he says. “I will buy.”

Quinoc can’t conceal his smile, rubbing his hands together in pleasure. “Good, good,” he says. “How many hours?”

But the Tarumbi shakes his head. “No,” he says, and points at the Vulcan. “No rent. Buy.”

 _Oh._ Quinoc raises his eyebrows. “He’s not for sale.”

The Tarumbi doesn’t miss a beat. “We talk price,” he answers. “Maybe after, you…what. Change your mind?”

The way he says it, confident and self-assured, gives Quinoc pause. He looks the Tarumbi up and down, once again taking in the tattoos, the blond hair, the eyes that speak for years of always getting what one wants. This Tarumbi is no doubt wealthy, probably even more so than many of the royal families on various planets. And Quinoc can always find another Vulcan; they’re rare but they’re not _that_ rare.

Well, at the very least, he can negotiate a little. He eyes the Tarumbi, thinks about his approach, and formulates his plan of attack.

Even he’ll admit that the number he lists is outlandish—it’s enough to buy him his own starship, maybe even a small planetoid, but hey, you don’t get anywhere in this business by giving ground. And, if all goes according to plan, he’ll end up making the price sound very…convincing.

The Tarumbi dutifully wrinkles his nose. “Price high,” he says, just as Quinoc knew he would.

“Oh, believe me, he’s worth it.” Quinoc parts his thighs and unbuttons his pants. “Care for a demonstration?”

The Tarumbi’s nostrils flare again. “Do not—”

Quinoc ignores him, already yanking the chain, forcing the Vulcan up so that his face is level with Quinoc’s penis, already half-hard. He looks up at the Tarumbi and winks. This is as much for his benefit as for his customer’s, after all.

The Vulcan, to his credit, seems to have learned much after only a week in Quinoc’s custody. Quinoc doesn’t even have to say anything; just gives the chain another tug, and the Vulcan dutifully opens his mouth and swallows Quinoc’s cock in one go. Quinoc grunts as the sudden, wet heat sends sparks of pleasure skittering up his spine. Yeah, he likes his broads, his Orion girls with their wet pussies and his hermaphroditic Clo’vii with their talented forked tongues, but nobody gives head like a Vulcan. Quinoc’s already lost track of how many times he’s had the slave on his knees this past week.

Sure, the first few times he had to…persuade the slave, usually with a good punch or two. But the end result is so worth it: the suctioning heat, the rough, cat-like tongue, those dark eyes shining with unspilled tears as Quinoc grabs him by the head to hold him in place and thrusts up, shoving his cock down the Vulcan’s throat, choking him like the slave deserves…

His climax hits him in a rush, entire body tensing before everything goes suddenly fuzzy and relaxed. The Vulcan gags and draws back, coughing and wretching globs of come onto the dirty club floor. Quinoc should probably punish him for not swallowing, but he’s feeling generous tonight. And he’s sure the Tarumbi will be doling out punishment aplenty from here on out.

Speaking of which…Quinoc licks his lips, ignoring the still-spluttering slave as he looks back up at the Tarumbi. What he sees gives him a moment’s pause.

The Tarumbi himself seems largely unaffected, expression as blank and icy as ever. But his bodyguard, the other Tarumbi, looks positively _murderous_. In fact, Quinoc can see his hands clenched into giant fists at his side, and the only thing keeping him still appears to be his boss’s fingers wrapped firmly around his wrist. The human doctor, for his part, has turned away and has his gaze fixed on some unlit corner of the room.

A flutter of amusement makes the corner of Quinoc’s mouth twitch up. He didn’t know Tarumbi could get jealous, but then again, the slave _is_ Vulcan. Maybe once they buy him, his boss’ll let him have a go, too. Hell, Quinoc’s never had sex with a Tarumbi before, never even seen porno with them in it. Maybe he’ll ask them to let him watch. As a…bonus, of sorts.

A few more moments pass in silence. Quinoc arches his eyebrow at the lead Tarumbi, before nodding down at the slave who, to his pleasure, has retreated back to his customary place at Quinoc’s feet. “So,” he says, tucking himself back into his pants. “Do we have a deal?”

The Tarumbi straightens his shoulders. Quinoc feels a strange, fleeting sense of cold when those blue eyes lock with his—if he didn’t know better, he’d say the Tarumbi was actually angry about something. Maybe it’s the price. Well, Quinoc’ll let the Tarumbi haggle if he wants; that’s the whole point of setting a number so high in the first place.

But then the Tarumbi just says, “Good product. Agree.”

Quinoc can’t help the grin then. Holy shit, he’s just made the deal of his life, and all for a pale, skinny Vulcan? He’s going to have to keep an eye out for them from now on.

He’s not sure how Tarumbi seal their contracts, but extending his hand seems to do the trick. The Tarumbi doesn’t take it, but he does nod again, offering his padd forward so that Quinoc can input his account number. He can barely tap the numbers right, he’s so ecstatic. Hell, this deal’s going to set him up for _life_.

He inputs the last digit with a flourish before handing over the end of the chain to the Tarumbi. “He’s all yours.”

“Grateful.” The Tarumbi curls his fingers around the chain, grip white-knuckled. Wow. He must really want the Vulcan bad. With his other hand, he extracts from his pocket a small silver square, no bigger than a Federation credit chip, that gleams in the dim light. “Gift,” he says, “for good deal.”

It’s a Tarumbi custom, Quinoc remembers, to offer small trinkets along with monetary transactions. He nods and takes the metal square; it’s remarkably light, no markings or anything, and he has no idea what it is. But no matter. Probably the Tarumbi equivalent of a cigarette or something.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” he says, pocketing the square.

The Tarumbi nods and tugs on the chain, bringing the Vulcan up to stand beside him. “Pleasure’s all mine,” he answers, in smooth Earth Standard, no trace at all of an accent anymore.

Then, in the next instant, he, the Vulcan, the other Tarumbi, and the doctor all disappear in a swirl of white light.

Quinoc’s blood freezes in his veins as he realizes the depth of his mistake.

Oh.

_Fuck._

* * * 

Hendorff is snarling as soon as the transporter room materializes around them. “Let me back down there,” he growls. “Motherfucker. I’ma _kill_ him, sir, tell ‘em to beam me back right the fuck now—”

“That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant,” Jim says, and can’t believe the calm, steady voice that speaks those words is his own. “You’re dismissed.”

“But Captain—”

“ _Now._ ”

Still cursing, Hendorff exits the room. Jim drops the chain—and that fucker had had Spock _chained_ , like he was an animal, nothing but fucking _property_ —and flips open his communicator. “Kirk to bridge. Sulu, you still have those torpedoes locked onto my beacon?”

“Aye, sir.”

Jim nods and, at last, allows the anger through, the all-consuming _fury_ that sears his insides like a conflagration in his very soul. “Fire at will. I want that whole city reduced to fucking _quarks_. Anything bigger than that and you’re off this ship. Do I make myself clear?”

Sulu’s answer is immediate and quakes with barely contained emotion. “Yes, sir.”

The floor shudders beneath them as the _Enterprise_ unleashes her payload. Jim closes his eyes and takes a breath, following the trajectory of the torpedoes in his mind, seeing them slam into that fucking slave club, watching them incinerate that sneering piece of _shit_ who’d had Spock chained at his feet, who’d tugged him around like a dog, who’d forced him to…to…

Next to them, Bones clears his throat. “Jim,” he says, voice low and strained. “He needs to go to sickbay.”

Jim lets out his breath. Focus. He has Spock back. He needs to remember that.

“Yeah.” He turns to his First Officer, who still hasn’t said a word. “Spock?”

In all the time that has passed since they beamed back up, Spock hasn’t moved, hasn’t even tried to cover himself. He just stands there, staring at some far-off corner of the room, and Jim bites his lip, ventures a step closer and a touch of his fingers to Spock’s hand. “Spock.”

The Vulcan reacts immediately, fingers like steel bars wrapping around Jim’s own. Those brown eyes turn to him, shining with a vulnerability so sharp it makes Jim’s chest ache. Spock doesn’t even have to say anything. Jim squeezes his hand and turns to his CMO.

“I’m taking him back to our quarters,” he says.

Bones frowns. “Jim, I’m serious, we need to get him checked out—”

“I know.” Jim looks back at Spock, strokes a thumb down the back of Spock’s hand and feels the Vulcan tremble in response. Then he turns back to Bones. “Just…not now, okay?” He lets out a breath. “Not now.”

And Bones, to his credit, seems to understand. He straightens his shoulders and nods. “Fine,” he answers, “but first thing tomorrow, you’re bringing him in.” He takes a small medkit and a change of clothes from the yeoman who just walked into the room, and hands them both to Jim. “Make sure he gets plenty of rest, okay? Doctor’s orders.”

Jim nods. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Bones looks at Spock then, and his voice softens. “It’s…good to have you back, Spock.”

Spock doesn’t answer. Bones sighs, gives Jim another pointed look, and walks out of the room with the yeoman.

The chain—and the collar attached to it—is the first to go, Jim tossing it into the corner of the room with savage satisfaction. After that, it takes only a moment to get Spock dressed, the ensign manning the transporter turned pointedly away. On their way out, Jim makes sure to hand him the padd with the trader’s information on it. It’s been a month since Spock was kidnapped, and he knows this trader is likely only one of many who have hurt the Vulcan in that time. Jim intends to hunt every single of one of them down, to make them suffer for what they did to Spock.

He only hopes they have enough torpedoes.

Spock remains quiet all through their journey back to the officers’ quarters, saying nothing in the turbolift, as they walk down the gleaming metal halls, as they come to a stop outside the door to their shared living space. Jim doesn’t press him, just maintains a grip on Spock’s hand as he uses the other to input his entry code.

It isn’t until the door has closed behind them, leaving them alone in the small space, that Jim finds himself at a complete loss as to what to do. He and Hendorff had planned everything down to a T: the Tarumbi disguises, the negotiations, the beacon. Uhura had even sacrificed her entire off-duty time the previous night to work with him to perfect the accent. But now that he finally has Spock back, alive and breathing and _here_ , Jim finds with a sinking feeling in his heart that he never planned for this. He always thought—irrationally hoped, he now realizes—that he would find Spock maybe a little roughed up and a lot furious, and that together they’d shoot their way out of whatever compound he was imprisoned in. Instead, he’d found his lover naked and chained at the feet of a smirking slave trader, humiliated, debased and violated beyond Jim’s comprehension. And now he just doesn’t know what to _do._

His entire being screams at him to stay with Spock, to hold him and kiss him and make sure he’s okay after everything he’s been through, but part of him doesn’t know if he’s allowed to do that anymore. He doesn’t know how Vulcans react to rape—and the rage returns with a vengeance when he thinks about it, makes him want to punch the wall and scream and fucking murder every single slave trader in the whole fucking galaxy—and he’s not sure whether Spock will even let him in after this. What if Spock is afraid of him now? Jim wouldn’t blame him, after everything he’s been through, but he can barely stomach the pain of thinking about Spock never allowing him to touch him again, always shying from his touch and watching him with that broken look in his eyes.

Or, worse, what if Spock hates him? He has every right to: Jim was the one who was supposed to be watching his back when he got kidnapped. Jim was the one who took a whole fucking month to finally track him down. And Jim was the one who just sat back and watched that fucking trader stick his cock down Spock’s throat, the knowledge that none of them would leave the club alive if he attacked the man the only thing keeping him from blowing the bastard’s head off with his phaser right there.

He betrayed Spock in every way possible: by letting him be taken, by not fighting harder for him, by letting that man violate him right in front of his eyes. They’d talked about bonding, before. Now, Jim thinks he’ll be lucky if Spock even deigns to look at him for the rest of the five-year mission.

“Jim?”

The sound of his name, soft, almost hesitant, breaks into his thoughts, and Jim realizes suddenly that he’s been standing there like an idiot just inside the door for the last minute. He looks up to see Spock watching him, features painted in stark relief by the light from the bathroom. Jim sees the bruises and swallows, stepping forward.

“What...” He barely gets the word out around the sudden constriction in his throat, and has to cough and try again. “Spock. What do you need?”

Spock’s gaze flicks down to the floor briefly before rising back to Jim. “I…would like to rinse my mouth.” His voice is hoarse; Jim doesn’t know if it’s from the general abuse he’s endured the past month, or from that guy face-fucking him back in the club.

He takes a breath and forces the rising anger back down. He needs to be in control right now, for his sake as well as Spock’s. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Bathroom’s right there. Um. But you already knew that. And, you know. You probably wanna take a shower too. Yeah. And I need to shower as well, get all this gunk off me. Scotty synthesized the ink, I don’t know from what but it smells like something recently died, and you probably don’t want me smelling like that, so…”

He’s aware he’s rambling and trails off, uncertain. Spock, for his part, doesn’t react; just heads into the bathroom. A moment later, the splash of water hitting the sink fills the silence of the room.

Jim takes a few steps forward and sits down on the edge of the bed. His chest feels tight, and he’s glad he didn’t eat that morning because his stomach is churning so hard he’s sure he would’ve thrown up several times by now. Jesus. What’s gonna happen to them? Will they ever be the same again?

The water in the bathroom shuts off. Jim closes his eyes and takes a few breaths, waiting for the sound of the sonics engaging. They’ll work it out, won’t they? Even if Spock hates him now, even if what they had together has been irrevocably ruined, they’ll get through it somehow. They have to.

Because if they don’t, Jim doesn’t know if he’ll survive it.

“Jim.”

He opens his eyes and blinks at Spock standing at the threshold of the bathroom. He’s gotten undressed again, harsh yellow light bringing out all the fresh bruises and scars that pepper his pale skin, and tucked into himself the way he is, head lowered and hands twisting about his wrists, he looks so small, so vulnerable.

Jim is across the room before he’s even fully aware of it, barely resisting the urge to reach out and gather Spock to him, and damn the consequences. “Yeah,” he says. “What is it?”

“I…” Spock cuts his eyes away, a small wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. “I desire your company. If…it is not too much of a bother.”

And the way he says it, soft and unsure and so far from the confident, snarky First Officer Jim knows and loves, is enough to make fresh pain explode in Jim’s chest. He swallows against the sudden lump in his throat and nods instead, trying to smile. “Okay. Sure, Spock. Whatever you need.”

He undresses as Spock turns on the shower—water, Jim notes, which hurts even more because Spock _never_ takes water showers, not unless he feels completely, irrevocably dirty—and doesn’t allow himself to hesitate before stepping into the stall. It’s roomy, one of the perks that comes with being captain, and fits them both comfortably as it has always done in the past. The steam feels great on his too-tight skin, and the steady _shhh_ of the water forms a soothing rhythm in the quiet of the room.

Jim still wants to throw up.

He left his boxers on, unsure of where he and Spock stand in their relationship now, and the soaked material pulls at his skin, clammy and damp. He ignores it, though, watching Spock for a hint of what to do next, and, after a moment of his lover doing nothing but stand there with the water beating down on his bare back, Jim finally takes the soap in hand and reaches for him.

It seems to be the right thing to do, because the tension in Spock’s shoulders relaxes a bit the moment Jim’s fingers make contact with his skin. Jim takes a breath and steadies his mental shields the way Spock taught him, trying to keep his mind blank as he cleans Spock from head to toe, washing away weeks of grime, sweat, dried come, and the touch of other people on Spock’s skin.

Spock stiffens and lets out a choked sound when Jim’s fingers slip down toward his entrance, and Jim quickly stops his movements, pressing a kiss to Spock’s shoulder. The Vulcan turns and buries his face in Jim’s neck, shivering despite the heat of the water, and Jim wraps his free arm around Spock’s back, feeling his eyes sting with tears.

When at last Spock relaxes a few moments later, Jim cleans him as gently as possible, choking on anger as his fingertips brush over the raw, abused skin. Time, he thinks, and calms himself by sheer force of will. There is plenty of time: by now, Chekov and the others will have made considerable headway on the other slave trader and everyone else down the line, and will be directing the _Enterprise_ on in her vendetta. There is time, and right now, Spock needs him.

It seems forever before the water spinning down the drain finally runs clear. Spock himself hasn’t moved for the past five minutes, face still buried in Jim’s neck as if he wants to hide away from the world. Jim lets him stay there for a moment longer, running a soothing hand up and down Spock’s spine, before the cooling temperature raises goosebumps on his flesh and he murmurs, “Come on.”

Spock follows him out of the shower without protest, and says nothing as Jim dries him with a towel and hands him a set of sleeping clothes. Only when they are both fully dressed and Spock is standing just outside the bathroom, looking blankly around their quarters as if unsure of what to do next, does Jim turn and brush a hand gently down his arm. “Hey,” he says, and tries on another smile when Spock turns to him. “You want to meditate or something?”

Spock shakes his head and looks away. The furrow between his eyebrows forms again, and Jim steps forward, reaching down to brush his fingers with his own. “Spock,” he says. “What’s wrong?”

He regrets the words the instant they leave his mouth. Seriously, _what’s wrong?_ That’s the question he asks? _Everything_ is wrong. Spock just got back from a month of being someone else’s _sex slave_ , for God’s sake, and now their whole relationship is probably ruined, and Spock doesn’t want anything to do with him, and Jim is violating about two hundred regulations by taking Starfleet’s flagship on a personal manhunt, and—and—

He is so busy berating himself that he doesn’t catch Spock’s answer at first, whispered as it was. Taking a breath and forcing the guilt to the back of his mind, he squeezes Spock’s hand and says, “Sorry. What was that?”

Spock lets out a trembling breath, still refusing to look at Jim. “I said that I understand the logic should you wish to terminate our relationship.”

And, just like that, Jim’s entire world grinds to a halt. Did Spock just…no. That’s impossible. How could he even…does he actually think…?

“Spock.” Very slowly, he steps forward to face Spock directly, forcing his lover to finally look at him, and the sadness, the pure devastation in those brown eyes is enough to turn all Jim’s insides cold as ice. “What…What are you saying?”

Spock blinks rapidly—too rapidly, and Jim feels tears of his own prickling at the corners of his eyes—and lowers his gaze. “We agreed to a monogamous relationship, and now I have engaged in sexual congress with multiple others,” he whispers. “In addition, I have derived pleasure from such encounters, enough to achieve orgasm on several occasions. In this way, I have violated the terms of our union, and thus terminating our relationship seems the most logical choice.”

Jim gapes. He can’t help it, a flood of emotions rising up like a surging tide until he nearly chokes on it: the anger, the helplessness, the guilt, but above all that, the all-consuming love. Because even after everything he’s been through, even after being beaten and raped and tortured at the hands of some of the worst men in the galaxy, Spock thinks _he’s_ the one in the wrong. Spock feels they should end their relationship, not because he fears Jim or hates him, but because he doesn’t want Jim to be hurt.

Jim kind of wants to hit him. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he takes Spock’s head in his hands and pulls him in for a kiss.

Spock stiffens at first—whether in surprise or something else, Jim doesn’t know—but he relaxes almost instantly, arms coming up to pull Jim close, desperation and possessiveness clear in the tightness of his grip. It seems an eternity before Jim pulls back, and then it is only to draw Spock close again, pressing their foreheads together so that they share the same air.

“Listen to me,” he says, looking straight into Spock’s brown eyes. “I am not leaving you. Whatever you’ve been telling yourself, whatever guilt trips you’ve been forcing yourself on over this, they’re all _wrong_. You came when they raped you? That’s a physical reaction; it would’ve been the same for anyone. It doesn’t change anything about you, about us. I scoured the whole fucking _galaxy_ for you, Spock. I blew up an entire city for _you_. And if you think I’m just gonna give you up that easily, then I haven’t been doing anything right for the past three years ‘cause obviously you missed the memo that I fucking _love_ you, you idiot. No matter what. Okay?”

He’s shaking by the time he finishes, everything too close, too angry, too full of love. But Jim doesn’t look away. He needs Spock to see it, to _get_ it, that what they have is worth more to him than all the credits in the galaxy, that it’ll take the whole fucking universe imploding to tear Jim away from Spock, and even then he’ll still fight like a motherfucker for it.

Spock is _it_ for him. Always has been, always will be. And Jim resolves, from that point on, to make sure Spock knows it every minute they’re together. Because if, as he was being beaten and violated and submitted to unspeakable acts, Spock thought for even an instant that Jim would leave him for this, would just turn around and walk away…

Fuck. He’s gonna turn this ship around _right fucking now_ and blow that whole fucking planet to smithereens, damn the consequences, damn Starfleet, he’s gonna kill every single one of those motherfuckers—

Spock closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath. Jim realizes with alarm that he let his shields drop and quickly raises them again, but not before Spock opens his eyes once more and says, softly, “I would advise against such a plan, as it is likely to end in your court-martial and ultimate dismissal from Starfleet.”

It isn’t quite his usual flat, semi-sarcastic tone, but it’s close enough that Jim nearly chokes on the relief rising in his chest. “And we can’t have that, can we?” he whispers, and for the first time, his smile doesn’t feel brittle on his face. “Still got two years left of our mission, after all.”

“Indeed.” Spock reaches a hand up to touch Jim’s cheek, letting out a breath that washes warm through their shared air. “Jim. Thank you.”

Jim sighs. “Yeah,” he answers, and ducks in for another kiss, just a quick brush of lips this time. “And no more ‘terminating our relationship’ bullshit, okay? Almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Affirmative.” Spock lets out another breath. “I believe my body would benefit from several hours of undisturbed sleep. In that time, I would not be averse to your company.”

The corner of Jim’s mouth quirks up. “You can’t just say ‘Let’s go to bed’?”

Spock hums. “Let’s go to bed.”

Jim’s smile broadens as he helps Spock settle beneath the covers. Once that’s done, he tells the computer to up the room’s temperature several degrees, before crossing to the table to open the medkit Bones gave him. He passes over the dermal regenerator and the tricorder—he’ll let his CMO handle the fancy stuff when he and Spock go to sickbay tomorrow—and instead preps a hypo with a cocktail of antibiotics and a mild sedative: he doesn’t want to risk Spock having nightmares during the night. Then he comms Lieutenant Ramser, his beta shift relief, who is more than happy to take alpha shift the next day.

By the time he returns to the bed, hypo in hand, Spock already looks to be mostly asleep. He barely reacts to the injection, at any rate, and Jim lets that comfort him as he sets the hypo aside and slides into bed next to his lover. “Computer, lights off.”

The instant he’s fully under the covers, Spock turns and pulls him close, tucking his head underneath Jim’s chin. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. Jim tangles their legs together and buries his nose in soft black hair, and for the first time in the last month, feels contentment in his being.

They’re not fixed. It’ll take more than a single night and a few whispered words to mend Spock’s wounds, both physical and emotional. But Jim thinks that they’re on the right track. It might not be tomorrow, or next week, or even next month, but they’ll make it. This won’t defeat them. Nothing will.

He grasps the knowledge like a precious thing before following Spock into sleep.

Outside the viewport, the stars continue streaking by in long pins of light, speaking of safety and comfort and home.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Regarding translations:** All my works, including this one, can be translated without first asking my express permission. I ask only that you credit me as the original author and provide a link back to the original work. For anything other than translations, please ask first. Thanks.


End file.
